


Never Be A Prophet In My Own Land

by geckoholic



Category: Banshee (TV), Strike Back
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2790242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two soldiers, a semi-spontaneous road trip, and some trouble in a certain bar in Pennsylvania.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Be A Prophet In My Own Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Devilc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/gifts).



> In order not to raise the wrong expectations: this is less of a real crossover and more of a Strike Back ficlet with Banshee cameos. That also means it should work even for someone not familiar with the latter - Scott and Stonebridge are definitely the focus here. 
> 
> Checked over for Banshee compatibility by macfraser82, since I've seen exactly one episode of that show. She also helped me brainstorm and birth this idea in the first place. Beta-read by gonergone. Thank you both! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Long Way From Home" by The Heavy.

For someone who resorts to macho posturing so often, Damien Scott is quite the chatterbox. He talks when he's nervous, when he's concerned, when he's bored. Right now, Michael can't quite figure out which one it is. They're marching through a bloody desert, so boredom would be the obvious choice, but given the topic of the conversation so far... He knows Damien worries about him. And it's good to know, kind of, but also really inconvenient. 

“And just for the record,” Damien finishes, finally having moved off the sports analogies, which are so stereotypical Yankee that Michael’s almost embarrassed for him. “I vouched for you.” 

Michael chooses not to comment on that. It's not a threat. He knows that. It's a _we're in this together_ and a _if you screw this up Dalton will hang both our asses out to dry_ , and Michael wishes he could appreciate that. But right now, he can't. 

Damien makes it through nearly five minutes of blissful silence, before he starts up again. “You know what? After we're done with this mission, got the fucking triggers and all, I'm gonna take you to the States.” 

And yeah, Michael’s not quite sure what _that's_ supposed to mean. “You're what?” 

“I'm gonna load you on a plane, and were gonna take a road trip,” Damien elaborates. “Start in New York, drive down south. It'll be great.” 

“Sure,” Michael replies, wondering if maybe his partner's suffered a sunstroke. ”Because Section 20 is so generous with vacation days.” People like them don't _get_ vacations, that's for those who lead a safe and normal life. Michael tried to be _normal_. It went south rather spectacularly. 

Damien hefts his backpack up higher on his shoulder, wipes a hand down his forehead and frowns at it. “After all the shit they put us through, they fucking owe us.”

“Yeah, good luck explaining that to Dalton.” Michael says, smiling a little despite himself at the sight of Damien's completely earnest expression. He's not joking. He actually means that. 

And Damien nods, earnest and decisive. “I will. Watch me.” 

 

***

 

A few weeks later they're standing on the roof of a hospital that holds their injured superior, and Michael's rambling on about the concept of zero – a concept and a number, it's actually _so_ interesting, beyond the neat side effect of annoying the hell out of anyone he recites it to – when Damien elbows him out of the blue and grins. 

Immediately concerned, Michael loses his train of thought. “What are you up to now?” 

“Remember that road trip? Perfect time for it,” Damien says, folding his arms in front of his chest and nodding to himself. “What with Dalton being out of commission and all. Now or never.” 

Michael didn't expect him to pick that idea back up, even if Damien might have been serious when he first mentioned it. They talk about a lot of shit that just peters out and doesn't get mentioned again. But Damien's right; they do deserve it. They need to get out, both of them, leave it all behind for a while. And this _is_ the perfect time. “Well. If you manage to make it happen, I'm in.” 

“Okay.” Damien's smirk grows positively obnoxious. “Let's do it.”

 

***

 

Two weeks later, they arrive in upstate New York, spend a half a month's pay each on two rented bikes and the appropriate gear, and start heading down south. 

Seriously, the things Damien can pull off if he sets his mind to it and makes an effort for once. 

 

***

 

Michael gives up on keeping track of every hicktown they pass through after the first two or three days. It’s all the same, anyway, and not the point. Because the exact route of A to Z they’re taking doesn’t matter a bit. The actual point is the road, and the two of them, and nowhere else to be. That’s why they’re here.

After that realization, it’s a little easier to shake the other urges that have been trained into him. He stops looking at his watch, silently cataloging what time it is and calculating when they’ll have to stop and where they might spend the night. He _relaxes_ , and it feels like the first real exhale after holding his breath for far too long.

Damien notices it too. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s in the way he looks over, fond and sort of self-satisfied, checking to see if his grand plan is working and coming up with a fat, blinking _yes_. 

 

***

 

On day four, they stop in another one of those watering holes, at the tail end of an afternoon driving past fields and horse carriages. Amish country, Damien explains, superfluously, but if he wants to play tour guide then Michael’s happy to let him.

The dingy bar isn’t anything special: dark, all wood, not even trying to be anything else than a place where people get wrecked and occasionally go on to wreck each other. The modest highlight of the _decoration_ is an old championship belt, the kind boxers get for making a title, next to a faded framed photo of the lucky winner.

Damien nods at the barkeeper, an old black guy with faint scars etched into his weathered face. “That you?”

“Yep. That’d be me.” A nod, accompanied by a proud smile. “Held the title for a few months, a lifetime ago.”

“Well done, man,” Damien says before raising his shot glass at him, briefly, and necking it back.

When he’s offered a refill, he refuses, instead producing a water bottle out of his bag. The guy nods, takes it and raises his eyebrows at Michael, who hands him his as well. Not a minute later he reemerges with both of them full. He waves them off when they try to pay, and that could have been it. An encounter as bland and forgettable as any number still ahead of them.

But the door opens just as they both stand to leave, letting in two men, white and dressed in flannel and dirty jeans, tell-tale bulges at their backs visible as they turn towards the counter – badly hidden guns. The barkeeper’s eyes narrow. The newcomers both grin. It’s a little bit like a scene from an old western, minus the horses and the leather, neither party even trying for subtlety. 

He and Damien exchange a glance, and they both move as one, positioning themselves firmly between the goons and the counter. A familiar itch settles under his skin at the prospect of a rumble, not quite enough to douse him in adrenaline but it still has him tense up, coiled like a spring and ready to fall back on his instincts if needed. Not that he expects it to be the case; given what they do for a living, a common bar fight isn't exactly much of a challenge. 

There’s a quick round of generic banter – _move out of the way, the fuck we will, well then get ready to have your asses handed to you_ – and then it’s happening. Michael’s not quite clear on who throws the first punch, and it doesn’t really matter either. Two minutes, maybe three, and it’s over, hardly causing him to break a sweat, the generic small-town goons not even close to being in the same league as him and Damien.

The barkeeper rounds the counter to stand beside them, eyeing the unconscious goons on the floor with a glint of amusement shining in his eyes. Not the first time he’s ran into this kind of trouble, Michael suspects. “Do I want to know where you learned to fight like that?”

“Probably not,” Damien replies with a shrug, which grows into a smirk. “We might have to kill you if we told you.” 

Michael just so manages not to roll his eyes. He kicks idly at one of the bodies, wondering where they should put them. Away from there, certainly, unless Damien plans on hanging around for a repeat performance once they wake up. 

“Then I ain’t gonna ask,” the barkeeper says just as the door opens again, this time to a man in uniform. And isn't that just what they need, having to explain to local law enforcement what went down here. 

The cop – now that he's getting closer, Michael can see a badge on his chest, identifying him as sheriff – approaches them, but he stops when the barkeeper puts a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head; a quiet signal to stand down, trouble's already over. “Proctor's men. These two here took them out. Help me get rid of them?” 

With a wary glance at Damien and Michael, the sheriff bends down, and something in his expression tells Michael he's better off not knowing what exactly _getting rid of them_ means. He nudges Damien. “Let's get going? Enough excitement for one afternoon; we're on vacation.” 

Damien nods, but turns back to squint at the sheriff after a few steps, when they're safely out of earshot. “I know that guy. I'm sure I do. But there's no way anyone would let _him_ play sheriff.” 

“Maybe your memory's doing tricks on you,” Michael teases. “Hate break it to you, Scott, but you're not getting younger.” 

That gets him Damien's attention again. “Funny. Keep him from shooting people for a week, and here he is, thinking he's a fucking comedian.” 

“Don't worry, I have no plans to make a career out of it,” Michael says as they reach their bikes. “And we've seen what happens when I leave your incompetent ass to fend by itself, so.” 

Damien's grumbling in response gets swallowed by the noise of the engines starting up. They've still got some sunlight left, and a thousand more miles until they reach their destination. Michael's got a feeling they're not going to get there, can already feel Section 20 breathing down their necks again, but damned if they won't try.


End file.
